


now or never

by orphan_account



Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - 1960s, Consent Issues, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-06
Updated: 2019-09-06
Packaged: 2020-10-11 00:46:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20537390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: “You still have a couple of hours ‘til curfew. How about you come in for a bit?”“Oh,” Peter said again; this time more breathless than anything. Swallowed. Regained his composure and mustered up some false bravado. “Sure. I’d like that.”(Or, Beck fucks the babysitter.)





	now or never

**Author's Note:**

  * For [seidrade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/seidrade/gifts).

> I wrote this in honor of my very good friend for her birthday. I love you, Seidr. I hope you have a wonderful day because you deserve it. :')
> 
> & a giant, giant thank you to my wife and co-owner of our single brain cell, for helping me with my mistakes and cheerleading me on. You're the best. I couldn't have done it without you. 
> 
> Title from "It's Now or Never" by Elvis.
> 
> (Look, I'm not the one who named Beck's daughter. Don't @ me.)
> 
> (EDIT: Also I somehow left out a whole section of this fic...so if you see the updated word count, please look for that. IT WAS A PRETTY CRITICAL PART! I am idiot.)

A powder blue convertible Mustang sat in the driveway of the Beck residence in place of the usual old station wagon. Peter pulled his bike up alongside it and gave a good, long look. A sharp-looking car if he’d ever seen one, chrome all polished and paint gleaming in the setting sun. 

He gave a low, appreciative whistle.

“Like what you see?”

Peter whipped around to find Mr. Beck standing at the porch, leaning on a column with his arms crossed over his chest. Normally he wasn’t home on Friday evenings, and it was Mrs. Beck that greeted him before she left off to have drinks with the ladies. But there Mr. Beck was, looking like he’d just got home from the office. Still in his dress slacks and pressed shirt, hair neatly slicked back and smiling kindly.

And Peter had good enough sense to know it was the car Mr. Beck was referring to, but that didn’t stop his cheeks from going rosy. 

“Yes, sir,” Peter answered, though he didn’t really know much about cars. His bike got him most places, and the Beck’s paid him well to babysit, but he didn’t see himself buying a junker anytime soon. 

“I can take you for a spin if you’d like.”

Peter nearly wheeled his bike right into the siding. He managed to park it collision-free, even with the thoughts of being alone with Mr. Beck, cruising along in a car worth more than his household income. Sounded like a dream.

It also sounded like something his aunt wouldn’t allow him to do in a million years. Probably on account of, well, the _rumors_.

“Sorry, Mr. Beck—”

“Quentin,” he corrected, “you don’t need to be so formal, Pete. It’s just us.”

“Oh,” Peter said, swallowing hard. “Alright. But, my aunt’s real strict. I don’t think—”

Quentin gave him an enigmatic smile, leaning a little from his perch on the porch. Almost like he wanted to share a secret, and Peter found himself walking closer just to hear it, his heart in his throat. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

“What about Misty?”

“She’s not here. Remember? The missus took the baby and headed to her parent’s upstate for the weekend.” Quentin’s mouth pulled into a puzzling frown. “Did you not get my message?”

“Oh,” Peter said again, blinking. Strange. Aunt May had been at home all day; he's sure she would have told him. “I guess not.”

“So, let me get my keys. We’ll go for a drive and then I’ll get you home before curfew. How’s that?”

Peter’s stomach flipped just a little, his hands going instantly clammy. He looked between Quentin and the car and thought about how nice the autumn breeze might feel with the top down. It wasn’t like him to lie— but was this lying? What May didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. And he liked Quentin. He’d always been kind and appreciative of his services, paid him well with checks and compliments.

Besides, he was nearly an adult now. He could make his own decisions if he wanted. 

And, Peter? He really wanted to tell Quentin yes.

So, he did.

The breeze turned out to be a little cooler than Peter had imagined in his head. Autumn was already edging on frigid, and with the sun setting against the horizon, it wasn’t long before Quentin pulled off to an overlook and put the top back in place; all while laughing in that deep baritone voice of his.

“Maybe we’ll go driving again this summer when the weather’s right for it.”

“Yeah, that'd be nice,” Peter said with a smile.

He didn’t much feel like telling Quentin that he’d more than likely be busy applying and looking at colleges all summer. Still, his senior year had just started. That was ages away. A man like Quentin wouldn’t be thinking twice about him by then.

No harm in letting himself dream.

They sat a moment in agreeable silence. The scenery was a nice coincidence; an overlook that offered a real breathtaking view of the town. The streetlights were lit up in the gray overcast of the approaching night, the houses all toy-sized. He’d never been up here before. It was pretty, even if it made him feel a little small.

“Thanks for this, Pete,” Quentin said softly, running a hand through his hair. The wind had mussed it all up, but once he ran his fingers a few times, it looked good as new. 

Peter didn’t dare look at his own reflection—it was hard enough to tame his curls with pomade. He was sure he looked a mess.

“I should be thanking you, sir.”

“Quentin,” he corrected once more. His sharp smile dropped and left something tired in its place. “It’s been a rough week. Getting out of the house is nice.”

Oh. Peter had…heard.

Rumors mostly. Gossip was all anyone did in this town. And, Quentin Beck sure did have a lot of it surrounding him. The latest happened to be that he and Mrs. Beck were splitting. Aunt May had told him about a week or so ago— followed by the suggestion that he look for a new babysitting gig.

“I hope—” Peter stumbled, looking for the right words to say. It wasn’t polite to just assume, or feed flame to accusations. He needed something generic, yet sympathetic. “I hope it’ll all works out. Whatever it is.”

“I don’t think so. Not this time,” Quentin gave a humorless laugh. “Probably for the best though. It was bound to happen sooner or later.”

Peter pursed his lips and stared at his hands, contemplating. He shouldn’t pry, but it really seemed like Quentin wanted to talk about it. After all, why would he leave it so vague if not? Why else would he be turned toward Peter with a sad look in those big eyes?

“Is it—you don’t have to answer me. But, are you and Mrs. Beck…?”

“Getting a divorce?”

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

“No, it’s okay,” Quentin sighed and hung his head. Laughed to himself under his breath and scratched at the stubble on his cheek. “You heard, huh?”

“Maybe a little.”

A lot, more like it. But that hardly seemed like an appropriate answer. Quentin was a nice man, going through a hard time. It was a crying shame that people had to spread his business all over town. He was probably torn up enough and didn’t need the constant reminding.

Which, wasn’t that exactly what Peter was doing? Reminding him.

“We don’t have to talk about it,” he hastily added. Quentin reached across the seat, got a warm hand on Peter’s shoulder. He gave it a squeeze, then a tight-lipped smile, and Peter’s heart did something funny in his chest. Made him brave. “But, if you want to… Well, I’ll listen.”

“Thanks, Pete. You’re a good kid.”

One more squeeze and Quentin returned his hand to the steering wheel, and Peter felt his body physically deflate. Turned to focus on the view spread before them; anything to distract himself from the heat rising to his cheeks.

“This is a nice spot. I’ve never seen the town from up here.”

“No?” Quentin seemed genuinely surprised. “Is this not where you bring a lady to kiss anymore?”

Well, if his face wasn’t red before, it certainly was now. Thoughts of kissing were dangerous, especially when coming from that mouth. Conjuring up all sorts of images of said mouth pressing against soft lips. But they weren’t the lips of Mrs. Beck—they were thinner. Boyish.

_His._

“Oh, well. I’m not sure. Maybe.”

“Peter,” Quentin ducked his head, caught his gaze and kept it. Peter tried to look away, honest he did, but those eyes were mesmerizing and so very blue. There was no doubt Quentin could read him like a book now. “Don’t tell me a handsome young man like yourself hasn’t had a kiss or two.”

“A couple,” Peter lied. The truth was, he’d had one kiss and as far as kisses went, he supposed it was alright. He didn’t have much of a rubric to go off of. “Just nothing this romantic, I guess.”

“You have to woo your old lady, kiddo. Take her somewhere nice to eat, and a romantic spot like this,” Quentin explained.

Peter figured he knew more than anyone. It seemed like good advice, except, well…

Maybe Quentin didn’t spend enough time wooing Mrs. Beck and that was why she was leaving him? He chastised himself for thinking something so awful, and instead turned to thoughts about how nice it was that Quentin was taking the time out to entertain _him_ like this.

Not that he was trying to entertain Peter in that sense. He wasn’t being wooed. 

Right? 

Because, of course, Aunt May had mentioned talk around town said that Quentin was _that way_. But that couldn’t be true. Out of all the rumors, it seemed the most absurd; Quentin was a man’s man. He was big and broad, dressed sharp, and always smelt like spiced warmth. He had a deep voice and drank his whiskey neat. Plus, part of the reason Peter knew him at all was due to the fact he watched Beck’s _kid_ on the weekends. The kid he had with his _wife_. Well, _former_ wife.

“I don’t have a girl, sir," Peter croaked out once he realized that he’d been quiet for too long.

“I see,” Quentin smiled, knocked Peter’s shoulder with his knuckles in a playful gesture. “Got your eye on someone?”

For a reason he couldn’t quite figure, Peter’s mouth went dry and hard to swallow. Well, maybe he had an idea or two. But it certainly wasn’t worth exploring. “I’m just focusing on my studies for now.”

“Smart kid.”

And there it was— the reason why that hopeless thought remained just that.

Even if by chance Quentin did fancy men, he definitely didn’t fancy _boys_. And that’s what Peter was in his eyes; just a kid. Never mind that he was nearly eighteen now, and a lot of people might consider him an adult. It’d take a lot of convincing to make someone like Quentin see that.

But, before Peter could think of something clever to say, Quentin looked at his watch and sighed. Turned to Peter with a sympathetic twitch of his lips saying, “I guess it’s getting pretty late. How about I give you a lift home?”

“Yeah, sure thing,” Peter mumbled.

He didn’t want the night to end. Something was thrilling about being out and about when he knew he really shouldn’t be. A certain adrenaline to it all. And he could tell that Quentin was lonely and looking for some companionship, a shoulder to lean on.

He could be that.

“We’ll just tell your aunt I got home early,” Quentin said, starting up the engine and pulling out to hit the road. “I still intend on paying for a full night, don’t worry.”

Funny. That hadn’t even crossed his mind. “Thank you, sir.” 

“Ah-ah.”

“Quentin,” Peter corrected himself, biting on his lip to hide a laugh. “Sorry.”

“Sir makes me feel old,” he said, glancing to the side with a wry, but charming, smile. “I guess I am compared to you.”

“I don’t think so,” Peter blurted out, a little too quickly. Tried to recover— “I read that forty is the new thirty.”

Quentin barked out a laugh at that. And<strike>,</strike> Peter grinned, pleased that he could cause such a nice sound from him. Especially on the account that he hadn’t actually read that anywhere. 

“Thanks, but I’m not quite forty just yet. Give me a couple more years, kiddo.”

“Maybe that was my round-about way of finding out your age.”

Quentin exchanged a few glances between the road and Peter, something working on his face. Peter instantly felt queasy, like maybe he’d pushed the banter too far into an unspoken territory. And all while not being entirely sure why he did it to begin with. All he knew was that Quentin got quiet and his fingers flexed against the steering wheel.

Peter sank into his seat, and wished it were socially acceptable to roll his turtleneck up over his head.

The rest of the trip passed in silence. He didn’t dare to open his mouth again. Just stared out the window at the shadows that passed; the residential neighborhoods being lit only by porchlights. He didn’t even say anything when they passed right by his street and kept on. 

Or when Quentin pulled into his own driveway and cut the engine, turning fully in his seat to face him.

“Your bike,” he explained. “I figured you might need that.”

“Oh,” Peter said dumbly. “Right. Well, thank you, Mr. Beck. I’ll— I don’t mind riding home. Honestly, it’s not far. I don’t want to be any trouble.”

“Pete.”

Peter’s mouth clicked shut and he stopped trying to fumble for the door handle in the dark.

“You still have a couple of hours ‘til curfew. How about you come in for a bit?”

“Oh,” he said again; this time more breathless than anything. Swallowed. Regained his composure and mustered up some false bravado. “Sure. I’d like that.”

Quentin, like so many times before, smiled and squeezed his shoulder. Just a reassuring, friendly thing that had Peter’s heart racing. The kind of reassuring that had Peter following him out of the car and up the porch without preamble, legs moving on their own accord. Trying not to hover when Quentin searched his pocket for his house-key, and definitely trying not to lean in and breathe in that nice scent of his expensive cologne.

It was strange being in the Beck residence without a screaming toddler nipping at his heels. Calm and quiet in a way Peter rarely ever experienced it, and yet the air was still thick with an odd tension that couldn’t be placed. 

Still, like a shadow, he followed Quentin to the den and found a familiar seat on the orange suede couch; settled into it and watched Quentin wordlessly go to the liquor cabinet to pull out a bottle of something amber. Whiskey, probably. More often than not, those were the bottles Peter found empty and stashed when he tidied up after putting Misty to bed.

He poured two glasses, holding out one for Peter to take. 

“I—” Peter was just about to say he shouldn’t. That he was too young. Instead, he shut his mouth and took it graciously. Took a little sniff before a sip. It burned all the way down, and he fought to keep a straight face. “Thank you,” he said with a grimace.

Quentin watched him, amused. Probably knew right off the bat that it was his first real drink of alcohol. Still, if he did, there wasn’t any snide or teasing comment. Instead— “How about some music?”

“That’d be great.” 

Peter took another drink, this one bigger, and he forced himself to swallow and hide his disgust behind the rim of the glass. Not that it mattered much, Quentin had his back to him, rifling through his record collection. 

“Have a preference?” Quentin glanced over his shoulder and Peter shrugged. “Don’t all the kids your age have Beatlemania?”

“Maybe so. I don’t keep up much on the trends.”

Another lie— and when did Peter get so comfortable with telling them? He never was keen on it before, or particularly good at it, for that matter. But he wanted Quentin to see him as older, more mature. Not some star-crazy teenager who cut out their favorite celebrities from magazines. 

The record player scratched to life, a smooth jazz melody filtering out, just low enough to provide a backdrop for a relaxing night in. Quentin turned and sauntered to the couch; sat close to the middle with one arm looped around the back, the other left to hold his drink loose in his lap.

“So, what _do_ you keep up on, Pete?”

“Well,” Peter swallowed and struggled to remember a single thing about himself that wasn’t utterly embarrassing. Something that might aim to impress a businessman like Quentin. “I keep up with Popular Science. My aunt got me a subscription for my birthday last year.”

“Yeah?” Quentin took a long sip of his whiskey, eyes never leaving Peter. 

“Yeah,” Peter said, mimicked Quentin and took a drink. It got easier to swallow with each go. “Did you know it’s predicted that in the future most people will own computers, just like they do televisions? Seems crazy, doesn’t it?”

“A lot of the things we’ve already accomplished had seemed crazy just a few years ago,” Quentin commented. “Who knows the future holds for people like us.”

Peter blinked, hands going sweaty. “People like us?”

“The common folk, of course.” 

“Oh.” The vice around his lungs loosened, but he didn’t feel any less claustrophobic. His eyes dropped to where their knees nearly knocked together, suddenly hyper-aware of the heat radiating between them; his head a little fuzzy and his collar a little tight. “Is it—is it hot in here?”

“It’s a little bit stuffy. You got an undershirt on?” As he asked it, Quentin sat down his glass and started working at the buttons of his shirt. Oh god, was he really going to— No, there was a white cotton tee underneath. Though, thin as it was, little was left to Peter’s wild imagination. “Go ahead. It’s just us.”

His hesitation lasted only a moment. Peter knocked back his drink and stripped his turtleneck off, tossing to the floor. Only realizing when Quentin’s eyes raked him up and down, that he was panting for breath. 

“You sure you’re okay?”

He wasn’t, not really. He wasn’t sure what was happening at all. To him, to the situation, to his body, or his mind.

“Yeah,” Peter croaked. “I’m fine, just—”

“Want me to pour you another glass? Might take the edge off if you’re catching a fever. We shouldn’t have ridden with the top down in this weather.”

Right, maybe that was it. He was just coming down with something. That explained the twisty feeling in his stomach and the prickle of sweat at the nape of his neck.

Didn’t really explain why his attention kept going to Quentin’s arms and the sinewy tissue there, blanketed in dark hair. Or, his hands. So big and broad and adorned with a golden band.

Peter sucked in a breath and forced his eyes up, only to find Quentin watching him with nothing but concern.

“Here,” he pressed his half-empty glass into Peter’s hands. “Have mine.”

He didn’t waste any time with it. The quicker he drank, the easier it was to keep down. It didn’t seem to help any, only made the room tilt on an odd axis.

Peter eventually found his footing again and a nice groove in easy conversation. Quentin kept his glass topped off, and Peter kept drinking because it seemed like the polite thing to do. The whiskey didn’t seem cheap, even if he didn’t have the right tongue for such accusations. Just a hunch. And Quentin was polite enough to listen to Peter ramble on about his latest readings, so it seemed only fair.

And talking to Quentin was easy. Effortless.

He asked about Peter’s college plans and didn’t laugh when he told him. Said a sharp kid like Peter had a real chance at MIT. He’d even write him a letter of recommendation. Asked about his aunt and how she was doing. Peter gave him a brief update, leaving out most of the parts that involved her adjusting to life as a widow—though he knew that’s what Quentin was inquiring about.

And it was in the midst of all that, that Peter realized the conversation always rounded back to him and his life.

“I’m sorry about your wife,” Peter blurted, gaze drawn once more to the ring on Quentin’s finger. But once he started, he found he couldn’t stop. “About your—marriage? I know that’s gotta be hard. She doesn’t know what she’s missing.”

Quentin chuckled under his breath, twisted the ring and curled his hand into a fist. “More like I do know what I’m missing,” he said, and before Peter could calculate what that might have meant, he added, “We just aren’t compatible. That’s all.”

“I’m sure you’ll find a new lady quick. You’re a real looker.”

Quentin’s expression turned from forlorn to sly in an instant, scooting a little closer and leaning in. Peter tried not to sway into it, but everything about Quentin Beck was magnetic. A force of nature that he ought not to mess with.

Eyes dark, he whispered— “You think I’m a looker, Pete?”

“W-well,” Peter stumbled. He hadn’t meant to say that. Just meant to offer some comfort, something friendly. Nothing to be misconstrued.

Like Beck had done all night to him, Peter reached out placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. Only, his depth perception was off on account of the whiskey, and his fingers found a hard bicep instead. His breath caught in his throat, but he opted to own his fumble and act as though he’d meant to do it all along.

“What I’m trying to say,” Peter continued, “is that you’ll find someone you’re compatible with. I’m sure of it.”

The seconds that followed felt like years, quiet except for the low music in the background, and Peter wasn’t sure how he even remembered to breathe. Not when Quentin’s eyes were dropping to his mouth and staying there. The sudden attention ignited both his nerves and adrenaline; made him trace his bottom lip with his tongue just for the sake of doing _something_.

Then it happened.

Quentin leaned forward and kissed him, warm and soft and square on the lips. It tasted like leftover whiskey, but with none of the burn. Smooth. Chaste, but lingering, and the stubble of his beard tickled Peter’s cheek in a way that he knew a girl’s kiss never could.

And the entire world stopped. Peter included.

Quentin pulled back; mouth parted in worry. He blinked a couple of times and then groaned.

Wait. No. Did he regret it already?

“Pete, listen. I’m sorry, honest. I read the signs wrong,” Quentin explained, running his hands up and down his face. Scratched at his beard and let out a low, shaky sigh. “Let’s not let this get out, okay? My wife already—”

Peter shut him up with a kiss. Fisted the front of his undershirt and hauled him closer. What he lacked in experience, he tried to make up for in enthusiasm. He kissed Quentin hard, a bit sloppy, but with every ounce to prove that there hadn’t been a thing read wrong. Not at all.

All that worry and trepidation that Quentin had just moments ago, vanished as if it’d never been there at all. He tugged until the only thing left for Peter to do, was straddle Quentin’s thigh, then his lap, while fingers carded through his hair and urged him impossibly closer.

This couldn’t be happening. This couldn’t be real. He’d drank too much and passed out. Quentin had tucked him in on the couch and he’d wake up in the morning with a sore head and a lot of explaining to do.

Except, the stiffening cock nestled beneath him was very, _very_ real. 

And at some point, Quentin had moved from his lips to his jaw, and then down to suck and kiss at the sensitive skin of Peter’s throat, just beneath his ear. A magic little spot that he’d only just discovered due to a persistent trade of tongue and teeth.

“This okay?” Quentin growled into the crook of his neck. His hands wandered down Peter’s back, cupped at his ass and squeezed.

Oh god, oh god. Peter only managed to produce a shrill whimper in return. Hoped it’d be answer enough. Because, if Quentin stopped, he might die. And Peter had no idea what to do to ensure that didn’t happen, so he just rolled his hips, sought out some friction like he sometimes did with his pillow.

It didn’t take long before Quentin joined in, helping to guide him in grinding down harder, with more rhythm and oh so perfectly against his cock.

“That’s right, sweetheart. Feel that?” He canted his hips up, rubbed himself along Peter’s ass for punctuation. “You ever let another man touch you like this?”

Peter shook his head weakly. Alcohol and blissed-out desire fogging his mind up.

No, he wanted to say. No one had ever touched him like this. He’d never had strong hands on him, pulling him apart and kneading. Never been so hard that he saw stars every time his dick so much as brushed the fabric of his pants.

“Have you thought about it?” Quentin’s hand moved from his backside to cup between his legs. “Oh,” he said, evidently pleased at what he found, “I bet you have. Look how hard you already are.”

Peter gasped. God, just a little more and he could come. Just like this. His brain barely even registered what Quentin was saying; couldn’t decipher the teasing for it was whispered in his ear. All he knew was that he wanted more.

That he wanted Quentin, and maybe always had.

Then Quentin cruelly drew his hand away, leaving Peter to thrust into nothing. “What do you want, Pete? You gotta tell me.”

Mercy? For him to keep on talking? To shut up? For some pressure on the ache between his legs?

He settled for getting Quentin’s shirt off. And, because even simple words and phrases were hard for him, Peter grunted “off” and tugged at the fabric until it came loose and untucked from his pants. Quentin helped him the rest of the way, tossed it over to lay with Peter’s turtleneck on the floor, and leaned back. Let Peter look his fill.

Oh, whatever he’d been able to glean with the shirt on was nothing compared to what really lay beneath. Hard muscle and dark hair; a chest so broad that it dwarfed Peter’s hands when he grabbed an exploratory handful. Just like the men in the magazines beneath his mattress. Maybe even better.

“Like what you see?” Quentin asked, a dark mirror to their earlier exchange. His gaze remained dark and hungry, fixated on Peter, who was only capable of biting his lip and nodding in return. “Great, sweetheart. Now, let me see you.”

Peter let Quentin take his undershirt off. He tried not to be self-conscious of his body, small and smooth in comparison, but he’d spent most of the night trying to convince Quentin he was an adult and this well, it wasn’t doing him any favors.

“Sorry—” Peter tried to apologize, only to be drowned out by his own choked moans when Quentin’s lips latched around a nipple, while he thumbed the other one and rolled it between his fingers. Too much. It left him grabbing at Quentin’s shoulders, hanging on for dear life, unable to focus on either sensation. 

“Such a pretty little body,” Quentin growled against his skin, breath puffing hot against him.

And _oh_, normally being called pretty would irritate him, dredge up some insecurities. But hearing Quentin say it in his low timber, husky with desire? It made Peter’s entire body shake.

“T-thank you, sir,” Peter managed to get out, because that was the polite thing to do when someone paid you such a nice compliment. Only realized he’d reverted back to formalities when the hand on his waist tightened to something near painful.

Quentin didn’t correct him this time. Instead, asked— “How about I show you how to make a man feel good?” 

“I—_ahh_, okay.”

Honestly, it seemed a little scary. He could feel Quentin under him, hard and much larger than his own, the only other cock he’d handled. But he could do it. He _wanted_ to do it. And, god, he was so turned on that he might do just about anything Quentin suggested if it meant he touched him. 

“You’re such a smart kid. Bet you’re a real quick learner.”

“I am.” Peter rolled his hips down just to prove his point. “_Sir_.”

Quentin groaned and wrapped a hand around Peter’s back, held him steady, and guided himself to his knees. Slipped off the couch, and laid Peter gently on the shag rug; followed it with a less-than-gentle tug to his zipper. It didn’t take long for Quentin to get him completely bare from the waist down, leaving feeling oddly exposed. Embarrassed, almost. 

But it was difficult for that feeling to last when he was being looked at like a four-course meal.

“God, Pete, you don’t know. You don’t have any idea,” Quentin growled, hands moving up his flanks to frame his cock, but not touch it. Peter closed his eyes, had to physically stop himself from sobbing and pleading for that touch to move just a little further in. “Do you?”

No, but what he did know, was that he was so hard it hurt, and if Quentin didn’t touch him, he was going to die right there on the Becks' nice carpet. Peter wanted to tell him just that, but instead croaked out something that half-resembled a question. “Know what?” 

“How long I’ve wanted to lay you out just like this.”

Oh. Peter’s vision went cloudy, his head fuzzy at just the thought of it. All those nights when Quentin had got home early, fixed himself a glass and watched Peter put Misty to bed and pick up the toys and blocks around the den. Smiled at him politely, and made light conversation; asked Peter about school, and weekend plans.

How many times had he been thinking about this instead?

“Me too,” Peter whispered. 

“Yeah?” Quentin asked, finally offering him some mercy and taking hold of him. Didn’t stroke though, just squeezed hard enough to get a fat drop from the tip. Enough to make Peter whine. “You wanted a nice, strong man to show you how to feel good?” 

Peter shook his head, swallowed hard. “Not just any man.”

“Ahh, damnit, kid,” Quentin groaned, leaning over to hover properly, one hand planted next to Peter’s cheek and the other still teasing between his legs. “You’re killing me.”

Peter knew Quentin got the picture, but he felt brazen enough to clarify, “I wanted you.”

There it was. No longer a guilty, dirty secret he kept shoeboxed in the back of his mind. He understood now, why he obsessed over the rumors surrounding Quentin. He had wanted them to be true. It felt good to admit it, to get it off his chest.

And as good it felt, it was nothing compared to Quentin’s hand stroking him

“Ahhh, that’s—that’s,” Peter sucked in a breath, bit his lip to keep in all the embarrassing noises that threatened to slip out.

“Good? C’mon, sweetheart, let me hear you.”

With permission, Peter let it all out. Every gasp and moan, as loud as he wanted. Every noise just made Quentin’s expert hand work him harder and faster. He had the kind of experience that didn’t come from solo sessions alone. Quentin worked to wring those noises out, grunting under his breath, carefully slicked hair hanging loose in his face. A feral, predatory glint in his eyes and bared teeth.

Peter wasn’t going to last long. Felt release pooling warm and low in his belly. He tried to stave it off just a little bit longer, too afraid that the end would come, and Quentin would send him on his way. He turned to an old trick he practiced when he was alone and wanted to drag it out: Think out some ridiculous scenario. Anything. And usually, the thought of Aunt May walking in immediately had his orgasm waning. 

So, Peter closed his eyes and pictured Mrs. Beck coming home.

He pictured her walking up to her nice three-bedroom house in the suburbs, unsuspecting. Hanging up her peacoat and scarf on the coat rack by the door and waltzing right into the den to find her husband with a hand on the babysitter’s cock. Peter, laid out on her floor with his legs around Quentin’s waist and his hands in his hair, screaming for it.

“Oh, I’m—” Peter bit his knuckle and came hard.

He let out a shaky breath and felt his body tense, arched right off the floor with a tremble while Quentin worked him through it, and then dropped weightless against the shag. Guilt tried to gnaw at him, but Quentin snuffed it out with a low moan.

God, that sound alone nearly had the power to get him up again.

“Look at you,” he mumbled, wiping his mess-coated hand along the inside of Peter’s thighs. “Jesus Christ, kid, _look at you_.”

Quentin didn’t give him time to look at anything. He manhandled Peter’s legs from around him, smacked his bare thigh and turned him over. Peter, his mind still foggy from his orgasm, went pliantly.

Panic only set in when he heard the sound of a zipper and rustling fabric. Oh, god. No, he wasn’t ready for all that. He hadn’t gotten a proper look at Quentin’s cock, but he knew it was a monster. He’d felt the size of it hard under his ass the whole time they kissed. 

Peter tried to scramble to his knees, but a hand came to the small of his back, pushing him down.

“Relax. I’m not going to hurt you.”

“It’s— it’s too big,” Peter swallowed down his embarrassment. His shame. Maybe it wasn’t that Quentin was too big. Maybe _he_ was too small. “I’m sorry, sir. Please.”

A soothing hand caressed up his trembling thigh and Quentin hushed him like a frightened rabbit. “Sweetheart, no,” he whispered, “I’m not gonna put it in.”

Peter sighed into the rug in instant relief. But if he wasn’t going to fuck him—?

The head of Quentin’s cock pushed against the crease of his legs, right through the slick that’d been spread there. 

Oh. 

Instinctively, Peter clamped tighter around him.

“That’s it,” Quentin groaned. “That’s a good boy. Knew you’d be a quick study.”

The praise sent a spark straight to Peter’s gut. A new urge, to be good for Quentin, reared its head, and his earlier need to impress morphed into something a little more heated. He laid still, but yielding, and held a tight grip on the rug. Took every slap of hips against him in stride.

The closer Quentin got, the more he babbled. Peter couldn’t even decipher most of it, just strings of praise and swears. The occasional moan that had him plumping up again. 

“You look so damn good on my floor, you know that?” Peter didn’t, but he managed a weak whine in appreciation. Once Quentin started, he couldn’t stop. Kept on talking— “God, kid. Do you know how many times I’ve pictured it? Having to watch you waltz around my house like you lived here? Wanted to get you just like this.”

“Oh—_oh god_,” Peter bit the inside of cheek until tears stung. He was hard again, just like that. Just from the thought of Quentin fantasizing about him, coupled with the slick slide of his thick cock between his thighs. “K-keep going.”

“Oh?” His thrusts got harder, a lewd slap of skin echoing. “You wanna hear about how I wanted to get you on your knees?” 

Peter sobbed and nodded his head. Yes, _please_. He wanted to hear it. He wanted to hear every dirty fantasy Quentin had; wondered if they lined up with his own.

“About how I wanted to teach that pretty mouth to suck my cock?” Another brutal slam. “How about how I wanted to bend you over that couch and fuck you?”

The noise Peter made would have been embarrassing if he weren’t already painfully hard and riding on the cusp of a second orgasm. He arched back, breath raggedy and wet. Had to consciously work to keep his legs closed, because it was much too easy to let them fall open in invitation.

The thought of Quentin fucking him had terrified him just moments ago, but now it had him close to begging.

“Fuck,” Quentin grunted behind him. “_Fuck_. You’d let me.”

It wasn’t a question, just an observation.

And a correct one.

“Yes, Quentin—sir, please,” Peter whispered; his voice still hoarse from earlier. He was talking out of his head, but he knew that he wanted it. Wanted to be had by him. He’d bear the pain, but god, he just wanted to feel it. “You can.”

“_Pete_.”

“Do it.”

Quentin dropped to his elbows, all his weight nearly crushing Peter in the process. Sweaty and hot, sticking to Peter’s bare skin. His timed rhythm grew sporadic, more frantic. Urgent. His beard drug across Peter’s shoulder and he pressed a bruising kiss to the side of his throat, probably causing him a few more days of turtlenecks and ascots. 

The kiss turned to a hard bite and Peter cried out, pressing his hips down into the soft rug. Just enough friction to send him over the edge again. Warmth flooded between his legs, Quentin’s cock twitching where Peter squeezed him tight. 

“Did you just—?” Peter looked over his shoulder, lazy and glassy-eyed. Nodded. “Christ, sweetheart.”

Quentin picked up the pace again, still erratic and off-kilter. His slide was wet and messy; his breathing raggedy and heavy against Peter’s ear. He whispered things that Peter’s mind couldn’t put together, too busy coming down off his high to comprehend fully. But he enjoyed that deep, rumbling voice against his skin.

It didn’t take Quentin long after that. He came between Peter’s thighs, adding more to mess. The Becks’ rug was probably in an irreparably soiled state, but neither of them seemed to care. Quentin slipped out and sat back on his knees, ran a hand through his hair, and gazed down at Peter with a heavy chest and wrecked expression.

“Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Peter’s stomach sunk. That was it.

“Okay, and then I’ll…I’ll go home,” he whispered. Behind him, he heard Quentin pull up his slacks; so casually, like none of this meant anything at all. All while Peter laid there bare and covered in the evidence of what they’d done.

“I can still give you a lift if you’d like.”

“Sure.”

Peter pulled himself up with wobbly arms and reached for his trousers. He’d seen this coming a mile away. There was no reason for him to be upset about it. What did he think was gonna happen? That Quentin was his old man now? That Quentin was gonna ask him to stay?

Or, that he even _could_.

“Hey, kiddo,” Quentin reached out and put a hand on Peter’s shaking shoulder. “Are you alright?”

Peter blinked. His face felt wet; his vision went a little blurry. Everything hit him at once. The reality of the situation. What he’d done. God, Quentin was still married. He had a child—one that Peter was employed to take care of from time to time. Christ, he’d really stepped in it.

“What?” Peter forced a smile. “Yeah, everything is fine.”

It wasn’t. It might not ever be again.

Worst of all? He wouldn’t have done a thing different. Except maybe pushed harder for Quentin to fuck him. And, huh, wasn’t that a telling thought.

“You’re a poor liar, Pete,” Quentin said, not unkindly. “C’mon, you can tell me. We’re friends, aren’t we?”

_Friends._

“It’s just—” He felt his lip tremble. Heard his voice crack. “Well, I just…”

Quentin’s grip tightened. He leveled Peter with a sincere, concerned look. “You wanted that, right?”

“Yes!” Peter nearly shrilled. Didn’t want Quentin thinking he’d coerced Peter into anything untoward. It was enough and Quentin’s face smoothed; a lopsided smile taking place of his frown. “I wanted it. It’s just that…”

“You gotta tell me, sweetheart.” Quentin’s hand moved from Peter’s shoulder to his cheek. Stroked him gently. “What else do you want?”

His face burned, an odd shame nuzzling its way into his chest. Why was this so hard?

Peter took a deep breath. “I want more.”

“More?” Quentin’s eyebrows shot up. “Like?”

He felt like the world’s greatest sucker. Naked and dirty, and clutching his pants to his chest like a lifeline. Asking a grown man for, _what_? Anything he wanted; they couldn’t have. And he had to say something. So, Peter settled.

“A kiss.”

“A kiss, huh? I think I’ve already given you one of those,” Quentin teased, even as he pulled Peter forward and against his chest. Those strong arms wrapped around him, holding him secure. Quentin brushed his lips along Peter’s hairline. “Don’t you think you’re being greedy?”

“Maybe.”

He _was_ being greedy and knew it. He also didn’t care.

Peter tilted his head up, mouth open and panting against Quentin's lips. “Please, sir?”

Quentin let out a pleased groan, swore under his breath and took Peter’s bottom lip between his teeth. Bit hard enough to make him whimper, and then kissed the sound right from him. Quentin kissed him like he wanted Peter in the same way Peter wanted him.

It felt _good_.

Quentin’s hand curled around the base of his neck, guiding him back to break the kiss. They were both breathing heavy again, foreheads knocked together and eyes locked. And even if it was unlikely either of them could get hard, the sheer intimacy of it had Peter’s heart racing.

“We really should get you back home,” he whispered. “Now, sweetheart, don’t be like that. If you want your aunt to let you come back next week, you’ll get cleaned up and let me drive you home before it gets too late.”

It felt _hopeful_.

“To watch Misty?” Peter asked cautiously.

“That’s what you should tell Mrs. Parker. If you think you can keep a secret.”

_Oh._

Peter watched as a wolfish grin spread on his face. He leaned into it. Parroted Quentin’s words from earlier back to him— "I won’t tell if you won’t."

**Author's Note:**

> come yell with me on tumblr (@shineonloki) and twitter (@shineonloki1)!


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